Bows and Arrows and Blonde Ponytails
by OrisounAsh
Summary: A collection of drabbles and one-shots from the point of view of our favourite vigilante (and occasionally our dear IT girl). Prompts are welcome and encouraged.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: These are just tiny snippets of Oliver's thoughts. No beta, so if you see mistakes, please let me know.

* * *

He didn't think he'd ever used the word "adorable" to describe a single person he knew. Thea had too sharp an edge, kindness balanced with a biting wit; his mother was, well, his mother, someone too poised, too refined for the word to apply; his past interests - all of them - had been beautiful, and driven, but none ran the risk of being called something so cute.

And Diggle was Diggle.

But as he hung suspended on a rail by gloved hands, watching her from the corner of his eye, he realized that she was, indeed, adorable. Her brow was turned down, nose scrunched to keep precariously perched glasses from slipping off, and her lips were pressed firmly together to complete what he had to say was the most determined look of any individual he'd ever seen. No doubt, some program or code was behaving badly, and she had set herself to the task of making it work with all the furiousness of a child fully intent on forcing a square peg through a round hole.

He had a list of words he'd been building to describe her - intelligent, stubborn, courageous, beautiful - and now he had one more.

Adorable.

She'd murder him if she ever found out.


	2. Chapter 2

He misses the island. Not every day, not at all, but enough to make him ponder at times if he actually intends to leave it. The world is...complicated. People are complicated. There are moments when he wonders how he did it, how he lived life with this mass of telephone calls and questions and shopping and conversations. The city needs help, needs someone, anyone to lance the infection growing in it, but did it have to be so full of people?

People require him to think about things other than his mission, his promise. People make him messy sometimes. Friends make him messy. They don't understand how freeing a life without constant talk and board meetings and worries about wealth, money. It was cold and dark in the hell he'd lived in, but there he knew the rules, knew the game, and that brought with it a strange sort of peace.

He misses the island.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: I am thinking of turning some of these into longer short stories. Let me know what you think, and/or which ones you would like to see more of.

* * *

Her footsteps on the metal stairs had begun to tell on her. He was getting better at discerning her moods by the sounds of those footsteps; flats for days she had to throw herself into work, heels for when she wanted to feel a little peppy. But it wasn't just the shoes, it was the weight, the hop she put into her stride as she came down that really told on her.

Today she was in a good mood.

Her heels barely had time to make contact with the old metal grating before they were lifted up again, practically skipping along as she bounded down, voice already echoing through the space, words rambling along without a hint of breath. She didn't say why she was in such a state, just that she was ready to take on the bad guys. He didn't ask why, not yet, he was too busy taking in the flushed, happy woman as she took her place at the desk, keys already clacking away as she picked right back up with her rush of words.

He always likes it when she is in a good mood.


	4. Chapter 4

It is raining. The rain here had a hint of warmth, carried over from the heat of concrete buildings baked during the day. There is concrete everywhere, glass and steel set into the grey, hard material that didn't even have the good sense to be aesthetically pleasing. And when it rained, the city turned dark.

He thought he would like this rain, with its warmth, but he found that this rain was as dull and grey as the city it fell upon. The other rain, the stuff that fell cold and relentless, brought a chill that spurred on a fight for heat, to find reprieve from its anger in any way possible. It drove a person to madness if allowed, but not him. It made him feel more alive, as though the fight for shelter, the fight for warmth brought out a an animalistic need to stay dry.

This rain is tame. It's lazy, pushing a person to scrounge for a newspaper or an umbrella or a bus stop overhang. It doesn't pound down in a demand to survive it, as a challenge to those below.

It is raining, and he laughs at it.


	5. Chapter 5

He didn't think he'd ever tasted something so wonderful. He could finally feel her under his hands, rough fingers grasping at such smooth skin, milky skin, beautiful skin. She was crushed to him as though he was afraid she would vanish, disappear from his arms and leave him cold again.

He is always cold, until she touches him.

Her fuchsia lips are on his, begging him, fighting him for control, giving him what he wants without reservation. He can't get enough of this taste, this wondrous flavour that was her. Hands with delicate fingers ghost over him, bringing a chill that spurs on a moan. They don't fumble over one another, they don't need to search; they are matched in every way, bodies entwining until there is no sense of who is where, but the sensation of _want_ is everywhere.

There wasn't a single part of her he thinks he can withstand not touching, he wants all of her, the parts of her he never sees, the parts of her he longs to taste, to fill...

His bed sheets are tangled around his legs, comforter in the floor, pillows splayed out around him. Sweat slicks his skin, a desire is set into his bones, and he can think of nothing else but her body on his, how every bit of him aches to be near her.

He would rather have nightmares than dreams of things he will never have.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: As per request, something a little more along the lines of Chapter five, slightly longer but with a twist: this is from Felicity's point of view. Don't expect these on a regular basis...Oliver does have thoughts outside of his dream rendezvous (though those are a lot of fun to write...)

* * *

He whispers her name, and she can't help but moan. Her muscles are strained, her breath unable to keep steady. She's wanted this man, this incredible man, and here he is, finally touching her with hands that skim over her with wanton ease, calloused fingers brushing her skin and sending tingles of desire rushing through her.

He has taken her into his arms, and she prays he will never let go. She begs him not to go, not with words, no, with her delicate hands as they cling to his scarred flesh, with her legs as they wrap around his hips, drawing him closer with every movement.

And he responds in kind.

She can feel the heat radiating from him, fueled by a need she can see in his eyes, eyes that are usually so cold, so tormented. Not today. They are burning with such ferocity she finds herself momentarily afraid, as though he will turn out to be nothing more than a dream, because no man can burn that hotly and remain _real_.

But he is real. His lips are on hers, their hands lace together as their bodies entangle, her slender form attempting to take in this rough man. She has to have him, all of him, her body demanding everything he can give, driving them both to the point of mindlessness.

She realizes they are becoming animals.

His words, his body, they are clamoring for a release, a complete disregard for thought, a hunger formed from sheer instinct, pure emotion. This is the man no one sees, this man who is now gripping her tightly, one hand tangled in her wild mane and his lips at her throat, and who seems to crave what she is giving him.

Her purple lacquered nails rake furrows into his skin, new lines meeting those already present. She thinks that if she holds tightly enough to him, they will never part, and he appears to think the same. There is no room between them anymore, no space between bodies now so slicked with sweat they gleam in the pale light. She opens herself to him, enfolds him, and nearly cries when she realizes he is hers...


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: This is for **Lil5weetie, **as an extension to Chapter 3**. **I feel like I need to write this again from Felicity's point of view. She keeps poking at me to do it.

* * *

He always likes it when she is in a good mood.

She is chattering away at her desk, unable to contain whatever it was that made her so excited. He listens with all the attentiveness she deserves, hopping down from his perch so as to give her the impression he was, indeed, paying quite close attention to her words.

And she is full of them.

On and on she goes about how work was exciting and how her "supervisor" had been dressed down for incomplete work and how gorgeous the day was already. She natters almost to herself for a moment, and he thinks that perhaps her need for him to listen has passed.

She excitedly mentions she has a date tomorrow night.

Those words, they hurt. He can't explain why, just that there is a swift loss of air in his lungs and tightening in his gut, one he never thought he would feel again. She is going on a date, one that would include another man.

Jealously was never something he'd experienced before.

But this isn't jealousy. It is something else, something that pulls at him in all the wrong places, the places he thought he'd locked away because he can't afford entanglements, could he. He needs to focus on his missions, on his promise, and he knows the only way to do that now is to forgo attachments, to forget attempting a normal life with woman he can love.

She is going on a date.

The words ran over in his mind again and that is when he realizes she's stopped talking completely, her shoulders hunched and the feeling hung in the air that maybe, just maybe, she'd said something wrong.

It isn't his right to feel this way, he knows it, but he can't make it go away. He has no claim on her, he does not possess her like a thing. And still it hurts to think she will be with another man, dining with him and laughing with him and possibly being touched by him.

He is angry now, at himself and at the situation.

This woman, she had become a brightness in his life, one he is holding on to with a terrified grip, afraid if he held on too tightly she would run, but too little and she would find another to be so bright for.

She has, and it hurt.

He hasn't told her she is the only point of good in his battered life, the only person, thing, existence that made him feel like he could actually make it to tomorrow, and that tomorrow wouldn't be so bad. She made him feel these things and now she had hurt him.

It was his fault, of course, but this emotion derived of pain pushed him to think this was some sort of betrayal. How could it be? He had yet to speak one word of his thoughts about them, his desires and hopes and the prayers he has sent a dozen times to whenever he thought God might be listening.

She is talking again, this time skirting the obviously awkward issue she'd inadvertently brought up. She is chattering about their next mission and all the information she'd dug up on the man they were after next, but he isn't listening now. He is going back to his training, falling back on the one thing he could lose himself in, the one thing he could rely on to calm him.

Not the only thing.

He looks at her and realizes something has changed, that he will never be able to lock down the emotion he feels when she mentions another man. He couldn't keep her, had no right to, and she would eventually leave for a man more whole than he would ever be.

He still likes it when she is in a good mood.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: I would like to thank all of you who have favourited, followed, and especially reviewed this rambling work. It all means a great deal.

* * *

He's decided they will never be sweet.

He is too broken now, too scarred. He doesn't remember how to be gentle and kind without effort, to be romantic without thought. There is something missing in him, whatever that something is that gave him the ability to think flowers and candies and candles were the language of love. That something is gone, and all he can think about is what that will mean when he can no longer keep away from her.

She deserves sweet. She deserves the flowers and candies and candles, all the things that would mean "I love you" in that language she would understand. He could try, God knows he wants to try, but those gestures wouldn't be the same. She would know they were forced, just as she knows how afraid he is to let her in. He can't be gentle, not without reminding himself his world doesn't have to revolve around bruises and bullet holes any longer.

But she is willing to try. She is willing to let him stumble and fall as he makes fumbled attempts at saying those three words in a language she is learning to be all his.

He will never be sweet, and she doesn't seem to care**.**


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: This is a bit of a continuation of the first chapter about Felicity being adorable. Well, a continuation in a rather roundabout manner. Also, I would like to hear your thoughts on what should come next, so feel free to give me prompts or suggestions for the next chapters in your reviews.

* * *

There is something about the way she scrunches her nose that makes him smile.

It usually takes place at the computer, when he is certain she thinks he isn't watching. When doesn't he watch her now? She will wrinkle up her nose, which causes her eyes to squint and her glasses to hang dangerously close to disaster, and her lips press together in what he has to admit is an astonishingly attractive manner. She does these things, and he tries to cover the pull of a smile, something he rarely does anymore. Not genuinely, not unless he is with her.

She has that effect on him.

She can make him happy by simply existing, by being in the same room and trying to hide one of her numerous quirks, quirks he is finding he doesn't want to give up. He craves her presence now, unable to feel _just right_ in his lair without her. Lair. Like he is some creature from a fairy tail, a troll hiding under a bridge. But when she says it, the word sounds like _home_, a place he can return to and know she will be there, all vibrant clothes and vibrant lips and vibrant personality.

He smiles at her quirks, and waits for the day she no longer tries to hide them.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: This is for **chiaki2389**, who gave me two (or three) very good prompts, which I am well on my way to finishing. This chapter is a little longer than the rest, but there was no other way around it. It isn't as...fluffy as it could have been, but then again, Oliver doesn't strike me as a man who is into that sort of thing.

* * *

He's never known a woman so hard to shop for as her.

She is doing so much for him, running herself ragged to the point of sleepless nights spent huddled around her computers, eating cold Chinese food and chastising him for some small thing or another. She is pushing herself hard, too hard, and the niggling thought that he was doing it to her had brought him to this.

Perfume would be too much, a gift reserved for women more...dainty. Flowers were out, as they always seemed to him - particularly now - a shallow gift, one that withers and dies within days. What sort of message would that send? Candy, chocolates, they were just as bad, a cheap declaration of affection easily forgotten. And clothes, well, clothes were a little too intimate, giving the impression he had studied her so intently that he would know her size without the need to ask.

Of course he knew her size.

He'd wrestled with the bear of an issue for days, until his mind finally wrapped itself around the idea that perhaps what she would like wasn't something to eat, or to wear. Perhaps it was more simple than that. Maybe what he should give her was something she will use, something she can carry with her, something that will work as hard, and as long as she does.

He liked the thought of her keeping something he'd given her close.

A plainly wrapped, bow-less package is left on the desk she had been laboring over so intently the past few weeks. It is waiting on her to open it, but the inanimate time bomb lacks the giddiness he found himself full of. He wants her to like it. He wants her to know he appreciates everything she does.

He wants his IT girl to know he is thinking about her.

She finally waltzes in, all bright colours and bouncing blonde hair, and for a moment, he almost takes the little brown package back. What if she doesn't want presents from him? What if this is crossing a line he had been toeing for quite some time?

But then it is too late. Her face forms a frown of confusion, and he has to look away, to continue his training as though nothing were happening out of the ordinary. He hears her rustling paper, the thick stock protesting at being unfolded, but giving way in the end.

And then there is silence.

He wants to look at her, he wants to see her reaction, but he is far too afraid of what that reaction might be. Finally, curiosity overrides fear, and he turns, hoping above all hope he will see a smile on her face.

And there it is! She is smiling her glorious smile, slender fingers running over the plastic container that holds what he's prayed would be decent enough to be considered a proper "gift". But she is smiling and holding the stiff plastic to her chest, hugging it with childish glee. He halts his workout, which means the room had gone silent, aside from her sudden exclamation of "Awesome!" that resounds through the cavernous space.

She looks back to him, finally noticing he is there and staring, and her colourful pink lips turn up even more, looking exactly like a small child that has received precisely what they wanted for their birthday. He couldn't help the threat of a smile that tugs and pulls at his own lips; seeing her radiating such joy made him sublimely happy, more so than he'd ever thought possible, particularly since the island.

There is a moment more of silence before she utters his name, the word coming out a question. His lips press together as his _hmms_ back to her, his own response a question, not knowing what the retort would be, what rambling, wonderful thoughts would come out of her mouth. She looks back down to the small plastic container, radiant purple nails tapping the raised cover which contains a small blue police box holding a surprise, and smiles again.

"Thank you."

He doesn't have the words to respond, he is too ecstatic, so he breaks into a smile that mirrors her own, and turns back to his training.

There will be more little brown packages in the future.


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: This is another short inspired by **chiaki2389**, from Felicity's point of view.

* * *

She wonders at times if the scars on his body mirror the pain inside.

She sees him smile, listens to his wonderful laugh, and she wonders if those normal things hurt him. When they'd first met, he was just the rakish young playboy back from a bad vacation, but now, now she sees a man who hasn't left an island she knows nothing about. There are times when she is lucky to witness small cracks in his quiet nature, those moments when he is able to breathe naturally, without fear that someone will see he isn't who he is pretending to be.

They are rare, these moments, and she is grateful to God that she is _allowed_ to see them; allowed, because she knows he is letting her in with these small seconds of true Oliver.

And it isn't that she sees his smile and assumes he is happy; when he smiles, she sees the whisper of pain cowering behind his watchful blue eyes, pain he keeps in check, but only just. There are scars in that smile of his, scars that he never shows to those closest to him.

Except for her.

His ire at a failed night, his sadness over a needless death, the enthusiasm after a harsh training session; she is allowed to see these things, knowing it is his way of showing her _who he is_. Slowly. Cautiously. Those scars that ride over his body as macabre reminders of the island he may never leave, they are not the ones she thinks about, worries about, they are the ones she has come to accept as part of him. But the wounds still fresh in his mind, in his heart, those are the ones she wants to know about. Those are the ones he is trying to show her.

He is tentative, unsure, and she will do anything to prevent another scar.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: For those who have asked, the present was a TARDIS flash drive. Yes, the do exist. I never meant for you to truly know what it was. As for this one, it is from a prompt given by **Lil5weetie**. You all should give me more of these, as they are surprisingly entertaining to write. I usually try to have them written in twenty minutes or so, which means they keep me on my toes.

* * *

She's been gone only two days, and already her absence is eating at him.

He trains, hoods up, prowls for the bad guys, trains again and eventually finds his way back to a home always curious as to how he invests his nights. He has spent more hours under that hood than could ever be considered normal, training harder, longer with each passing day.

She is on vacation.

He is frustrated that she will be out of his life for another three days.

It isn't fair, to want her back. She needed the break, needed the space from a city that ground down even those most accustomed to its demands. She hadn't been truly aware of the city's harshness, its black heart, not until she'd found her way into a lair reserved for a man fighting back against the oppressive tide of the city's toxic, dying breath. Her innocence makes her vulnerable, beautiful, and he sees that innocence wearing down every time he crosses off a name in his tainted book.

He is steadily taking away what makes her pure, so he has no right to demand from her more.

But now she is gone and a part of him aches to have her back. His fingers itch to feel just the smallest touch of her, to brush over her skin with those fleeting gestures he rarely allows himself to take. He wants to see that smile of hers, he wants to hear her laugh, to catch the faint scent that is _her_.

She is on vacation.

He misses her.

* * *

Author's End Note: As an addendum to all of this, none of these little snippets are in anything that resembles an order. They are set here and there and everywhere in the timeline.


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note: Here's a little something inspired by **AnAverageGirl15**. I hope it what she wanted. And thank you for all your reviews. They help fuel this author to continue writing, even when I hit a wall.

* * *

She never trains with him.

Everyone is worried, so worried, that he will be unable to hold back, that his ability to temper his harsh, unforgiving nature won't be enough to keep her from finding out just how painful real combat can be.

But here she is, standing in front of him, waiting for him to begin with a look of consternation desperately hidden on her face. He knows she has reservations about what they are about to do, reservations about his methods, but he doesn't want her to miss a day. She needs this, she needs the tools to protect herself.

He won't always be here to watch over her.

They begin slow, his body fighting the lock he's placed on it, working into a rhythm she becomes comfortable with. He quarrels with a smile, his pride in her pace, her competency, getting the better of him. She starts to falter, her muscle memory not up to par, but she battles through the confusion, toughs out the exhaustion her arms, her legs must feel. He is proud of her, and his body wins out.

His open palm strikes across her flushed cheek.

They both go still. He is staring at her, unable to find the words, conflicted as to whether he should apologise, or tell her to watch for a change in tempo. He feels as though he's crossed a line with her, caused a tenuous situation they may never recover from.

She is massaging her cheek with fingers tipped in neon green, working her jaw but not meeting his eyes. He is at a loss, he knew better, _he knew_ he shouldn't have forced her into this dangerous dance, and here they were, a worst case scenario brought to life because he couldn't fully control the tamped fire stoked by years of taunting Death.

And suddenly she is exhaling loudly, blue eyes cutting to him as she finally drops her hand.

"I hope I never meet your right hook."

This beautiful woman, she never ceases to surprise him. She takes her stance before him again, determination written all over her exhilarated face, an eagerness he can see burning in her eyes, her lovely eyes, that sends a smile to his face. She is strong, this IT girl, stronger than any give her credit for. Not physically, no, but her mind, it holds a conviction he's only sees in those fully aware of _who they are._

He is proud of her.


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Note: This is set at the end to "Home Invasion". A spoiler, obviously, so if you haven't seen it, I would advise you not to read any further. Also, I need more ideas, my amazing readers.

* * *

He is hurting.

She is angry.

His better half, his cohort, his _friend_ has gone and she sees his pain written in volumes across his face. He's pushed and shoved at those closest to him, using them before thinking of the repercussions, manipulating them with as much honesty as he can give. It's plain to her he never had a thought to cause pain to his friend, but in his drive to protect something he'd already lost, he cut loose something he needed. _Someone_ he needed.

She knows how much he craves to control the situation around him, she's watched him as he walks through a plan he assumes automatically they will fall in line with. Occasionally his friend wrinkles the path to his goal, knowing that sometimes he forgets there is only so much they can do, how far they can go. He forgets these things and his friend is there to remind him, to question and veto and amend his plans with the unmoving, unwavering conviction.

Now his friend is gone, and she is angry.

He has thrown away a man who'd shown nothing but loyalty, a man who'd become a center for them all, someone they could rely on to protect, to care for them. He'd raggedly tossed the man aside with his actions, actions that had been sure to cut them both deeper than any words. She watches the friend leave, and she blames the man she loves.

She cannot fathom the selfishness that had occurred, she cannot understand how he can choose the past over his present, over those giving everything they could to his grand cause. But then again, she _does_ understand. He is caught inexorably in the history of himself and another, unable, unwilling to make the most painful decision of all and step forward, to leave what part of him had entwined with _her_ and live. Live for himself, and finally leave the island.

She understands this, but she is still angry.

He is in such pain, and she doesn't need to see his troubled blue eyes to know just how much. His entire being is cold, his posture stiff, his jaw set tight. He is radiating conflicting emotions, all of them clamoring for attention, pain, grief, doubt, _hurt_ splayed over him in a tumultuous blanket of emotion.

She wraps her arms around him, and tells him he is to blame.

He tells her he knows.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's Note: Here you are, **AnAverageGirl15**.

* * *

It had started with a panel van.

It will end with blood.

He'd not paid attention, he'd been wrapped in his own world of arrows and threats and lists to remember there was a person who he had to protect, regardless of whether she thought she needed it. He had missed the signs, an now she is gone. Kidnapped. Missing. _Taken_. There are a hundred words to describe the act, but none to describe what can happen after. He knows what it is like to feel, _be_ helpless, praying and hoping that someone, anyone will rescue you.

She has been forced to feel that way now.

But he has found her. He'd raged through the city with cold intent, no longer a man beneath the hood. Snitches, informants, lowlifes, they were all introduced to fear at the point of an arrow. He'd found her, but not without casualties. Some hadn't given way to coercion quickly enough, while others made threats of their own.

Not all had survived.

He was indeed a killer, it was clear even to him, but he found there was nothing in him that stayed his hand any longer, not when she was involved. It wasn't murder. Murder is something people do to one another. He isn't human.

He will be this for her because he has to. There is nothing, no pain, no wall that he won't go through for her, not anymore. She is something pure in his life of dark and torture and death. She pulls him from his tattered existence long enough for him to smile, to breathe. She does this for him, and he will walk through Hell again to keep her.

And there she is, laying curled with pain, glasses crushed and skirt torn, blonde hair ripped free of its normal confines to spill over her face. She looks so still, so quiet, and that isn't right. She is supposed to be full of life, so full of it in fact that it bubbles over into his own, filling up the black places tattooed in his heart. But here she is, soft skin bruised and feet bare, and he cannot stop an icy chill from coursing through him, one driven from clear, unadulterated hatred.

There are others in this room, others who have caused his IT girl so much pain, and these men will find no quarter given. Not anymore. On any other given day, he would issue the command to put down their weapons, to cease their actions, and mean it, but not today. All in that little stuffy room are convicted of a terrible crime, no matter their involvement.

He half-heartedly tells them to stand down.

He is elated they don't.

These men, they drop from arrows and darts and merciless twists of necks, their bullets impotent against the anger he's let free. There is blood now, crimson freckles on cardboard crates and great swathes of red on peeling walls. And silence. Silence follows after these brightly coloured markers of death have been painted around the room, a silence that leaves only room for his breathing.

And hers.

She is alive and he has come back to himself. He is suddenly aware of the death and ruin around him, the macabre show of proficiency he has performed. He cradles her limp body, and receives a cut-short cry of pain, and he is grateful she can manage even that. But he shields her from seeing the room, from noticing the horror he created on her behalf. He knows she will be angry with him, will need time to understand what exactly he had done, and he accepts she may never forgive him for taking so many lives.

He brushes back her wild hair, displaying a face mottled black and blue but eyes clear as they look back at him with an emotion he has trouble comprehending. He doesn't smile and rejoice at having her safely in his arms, and she doesn't cry and babble on with thank yous. Instead he stares at her a moment longer, some part of him not wanting to look away for fear she may not be real, before brushing his lips over cream skin of her forehead, and lifting her up from the filth.

It ends with blood.

He will never be clean of it, but for her, he no longer cares.


	16. Chapter 16

She is patient with him.

He runs to women he knows he shouldn't have, women who are strong and tough and only see the man he wants them to. These women, they all come to harm because of him, because of his selfish need to be with another human being. That is selfish, right? He knows he shouldn't, he knows all of them have suffered from actions he took, or actions he caused.

And he returns always to one, a woman he cannot let go of, someone he craves to be with but understands she can never be his again. He has no right to ask that of her. But he realizes also that this woman is inexorably tied to his past, a thing he cannot escape, and so he can never escape her.

But there is one who knows him for who he is, and remains at his side through the arguments and pain and anger, a woman that never asks anything of him and gives him everything. He is wrong for wanting her to stay, and to stay even while he fumbles with the decision to finally look away from his past, and on to his future. She is waiting for him to make that decision, he knows, and though he fights with it on every new day, he can't let go, not yet.

He prays she will be patient with him for just a while longer.


	17. Chapter 17

Author's Note: One more for **AnAverageGirl15**. I think she almost single handedly keeps my inspiration boat afloat. But then again, all of you who follow, favourite, and review keep me driven to write more, and your feedback is always, _always_ appreciated. On a side note, I have been beta reading and beta reading and beta reading for the past week or so, and this last couple of days I have allowed myself to take a reprieve and get down to what I love. Thank you all for your support. It means the world to me.

* * *

He calls her and knows she will come.

There is blood on everything he sees, crimson on the gritty floor he is crumpled on, red on his clothing. He knows she will come, just as he knows he has put her in no small amount of danger, that fact eating at him even as his world wanes from brightly coloured, painted walls to a darkness he is almost ready to tumble into. It would be so easy to simply fall asleep, to allow the pain to dissipate and the anger to fade, for the mission to which he has been so devoted to go unresolved, all because he is _tired_.

He is tired, but he is also afraid.

There is a tremor of fear that strikes back at this desire to let go of this world, a fear that is driving him to continue breathing, thinking. He has to protect her, even when he himself has put her into the path of grievous harm. She does not deserve his cold manner, or the distance he has placed between them. She deserves someone warm and safe and close to her side, things he can never be, and yet he knows she will always come, whether he merits the act or not.

And suddenly she is here, words welling up from her in that manner he so loves, words that beg him to speak to her, to prove he still held on to his tattered life.

He cannot form the reassuring words, but his gloved, bloodied hand reaches out with shaking intent to feather over her cheek, leaving a scarlet trail that he frowns at. She isn't supposed to wear red like this. She should be wearing pink and blue and green, but never this red. He will have to talk to her about this, a stern lecture that would involve his adamant disapproval of her wearing red in this way.

He called her, and she has come.


	18. Chapter 18

Author's Note: **De Duchess**, thank you for the prompts. This one is actually easier to write than the birthday, but I am determined to see that one through, too. As for those of you who have mentioned how quickly these are updated, know that I work at a desk in a job that requires me to be online for eight to ten hours each day. Occasionally, I may sneak a snippet of time for myself...

* * *

There is a body on the damp concrete pavers.

She put it there.

She had been grocery shopping, just shopping on a normal day of another normal week and then something had happened. The world went _not_ normal and then there had been gasping breaths and shouts of pain and a warm wet that spread over everything. A shadow, a person had come wandering from the depths of the dark to take her away, and she had little time to think of anything but _no_.

She would not be taken.

The muscles remembered what the brain had not, they guided her through the moment without hesitation, encouraging her to strike _here_ and deflect _there_ and _attack_. Always press forward. He had taught her that above all. Defense is good, offense is key. Don't spend time thinking about the why's and the how's, don't think about the opponent's move. Think of the one coming next, use it against them.

Always press forward.

This man, he had not been as strong as her violent teacher, had not been so quick or deceitful in his actions. He was ponderous and dull, and her body had not slowed to match. He'd brought a knife to this altercation, this moment of violence, and it should have given her pause, but her muscles saved her once more as they processed this threat and acted accordingly.

Then there had been blood.

Oh God, there is so much of it. It slicks her hands and pours from his split gut, running out in awkward lines onto the concrete, following the cracks like so many tiny rivers. She can only watch, she can't comprehend. This man, he is broken. She broke him and she knows he can't be put back together. Why did he have to break?

But he isn't the only one. Something inside her is broken as well, something deep she'd never noticed until now, until it was shattered and frayed. This something, it had made her guileless and soft, kept her safe from the monsters and horrors around her. Now it is gone, and there is nothing left to replace it except a hole, a blank space where once there had been something wonderful.

She cries when she realizes this is how _he_ always feels.

There is a body on the concrete pavers.


	19. Chapter 19

Author's Note: I think I have what you wanted, **De Duchess**.

* * *

There is a small box on his workbench.

It is wrapped in green, and he is staring like the innocuous little thing might bite.

He'd come here for the only peace that matters in his life now, a peace he can only find when alone. Well, not _alone_. She has to be here for that peace to be achieved. He needs her presence, the calm that comes from knowing she is just on the other side of the room. And so he had come here to breathe, hoping she would be at her desk, working and waiting and smiling like always.

She isn't here, but a green box is.

It is dwarfed by to the presents shoved upon him at his party, those gifts things of prestige rather than thought, given to prove his worth to the person thrusting it at him. His mother, his sister, they were happy to share this day with him, but he couldn't keep up the facade for long. It is awkward to him, to celebrate something that had become so trivial on the island, a thing not remarked on and left behind along with so much else. He'd been excited for Christmas, to decorate and take photographs and make merry with all the small actions, thoughts he had missed, and it all seemed so wonderful.

Until it didn't.

So one more date had rolled around, and it seemed everyone in his acquaintance wanted him to share in this beautiful moment of family and friends, presents and cake, and he couldn't find it in himself to continue on smiling and pretending that he was enjoying the crush of people and gifts.

He had come here to see her.

He sees a box.

It is a tiny thing, in no way measurable to the extravagant containers of who-knows-what, but there was care, thought put into it he never saw in any of those others. It is tied up with a pale green bow, neatly trimmed and perfectly curled, the corners of the paper pointed and the folds crisp. A card envelope is perched next to the gift, an envelope with his name on it. He looks around, confusion set on his face, as though he has no clue how a small green box and matching envelope could come to exist on his table.

And then he smiles.

The envelope contains a card so suiting he laughs, grateful that at least someone understands. Its cover was filled with colourful characters, a fox in a green tunic and bear with a hat, both standing before a wanted poster sporting the same. These characters, they are happy, though the fox seems strangely arrogant and sure. He flips it open to find only three words written in her chicken-scratch hand.

Happy Birthday, Oliver.

He opens the box, carefully pulling open the ribbon and trying desperately not to ruin the paper.

The quirky gift inside brings a soft, quiet smile to his lips.

This is the best birthday he can remember.


	20. Chapter 20

Author's Note: Dear Lord, my peeps, you are starting to stretch my abilities. And I am grateful for it! **The Pearl Maiden**,** Lil5weetie**,** AnAverageGirl15**: you all have given me such wonderful ideas that I am unable to put them into only 500 words. Which means longer one-shots are on the way. Give me a little time with them, as they are rather in depth, and I want to do them justice. As a side note, this is a snippet-filler I thought about while watching an older episode recently, just a small ramble I thought I would share.

Also, **De Duchess**, I agree with your thoughts on continuing Chapter 18.

* * *

He wonders what she would do if he pulled her ponytail free.

They have been working in silence for a long while now, both understanding that there is no need for meaningless chatter, meant to fill the void of words most would find unsettling. She is deep into whatever code she has running, occasionally rubbing her eyes and adjusting her glasses, a gesture he has found to be one of habit now, not necessarily one of necessity.

He has turned round to study her, knowing well enough that she has little clue as to what he is doing.

And what he is doing, is staring.

Her hair, it is so like her personality, bright and colourful and bouncing right along with her, contained as always in a clasp or band that seems so restricting.

He wonders if that is how she feels at work, here. With him.

Can she be herself?

He's put no small amount of thought into that idea, one that never ceases to make him frown. What if she isn't really _her_ when she is here? Does she feel the need to modulate her manner, control her words? Not that she is terribly good at doing either, but he still wonders what she would be like without restriction, with no rules, implied or otherwise, dictating her every act.

One day he will pull down that ponytail.


	21. Chapter 21

Author's Note: So here is what happens after Chapter 18.

* * *

He is at a loss.

She is silent.

He'd gathered her up, buttoned her coat, retrieved her purse and ignored the demanding tone of an officer telling him to wait. The station had been a hive of rumor, as officers, secretaries, handcuffed visitors alike had created their own reasons for a billionaire to play knight to a wayward IT girl of no particular importance.

She was quiet, responding only with gestures and voiceless nods of her head when he's gently ushered her to his car, a sleek black thing he resented to bring, cameras and reporters already gathering at its spot, creating hurdles for them both.

He pushed.

He shoved.

She had been bundled and placed in the vehicle of supple leather and elegant wood and through it all, she'd remained silent.

Now they are driving, and he is at a loss.

She will not direct him to her home, will not say where she wished to go, she simply sits and stares at the inky black dashboard, hair a mess, eyes flat.

He knew that look, he knew what caused the eyes to dull, the voice to stay still, and he had prayed night after night she would never have cause to wear that look. But she is sitting there in all her miserable state and he cannot find the words to comfort her.

Because there are no words. There is nothing, no magic phrase he could say that would vanquish the dark void he knows she is staring into. It is a black thing, a torturous thing, this void, and it will eat up anything allowed to come near. He had seen this void, _sees_ this void, on the island, in his home, one the rooftops of the city and in the sanctuary of his lair. It never leaves, it never stops staring back, even when hope and light and silver linings are poured into it by copious amounts.

And _Christ_, he knows this is what she feels, and it is eating him alive.

She is moving now, no longer blankly gazing straight ahead. Her eyes fall to her arms, her hands reach out ahead, and he hears, _feels_ her suck in a breath so ragged it pains him.

She tells him there is blood on her coat.

He hopes she will understand when he tells her it isn't hers, that she is just fine and everything is alright and oh God she isn't listening.

Her fingers brush at the red stains with more force, her eyes frantic, her mind fixated on this one thing. She notices more scarlet on her fingertips, the remnants of an act committed only an hour ago, and the sight sends her into heart stopping moment of breathlessness.

She begs him to stop, her hands tearing at the handle.

He pulls over, ignoring the aggressive blare of horns as he takes up part of the lane, immediately unfastening himself and reaching over to steady her, but she is having none of it. She is out of the car and struggling to stand on the cracked sidewalk, shucking out of her coat, tangling her arms and missing buttons.

He is out now, desperately wanting to hold her, to tell her she will be alright, she will find peace, but he knows this has to happen. She needs to see it through.

She is screaming now.

There isn't anything human about what she is doing, no words to be found in this animalistic cry for help. She is begging the world to take away the pain in the only way she can, and he stands watching with sudden shame.

This is a private moment, her moment, and he is intruding.

Tears are falling from her eyes, eyes no longer hiding behind brightly hued glasses, tears born of anger and pain and a myriad of other emotions he may never understand.

He approaches her now, wary of her reaction, unsure if he should close the distance or give her the space to rage. But his name escapes her in a sob, she is reaching for him blindly, and without further thought his is there, wrapping himself around her as though he can keep out the pain just from contact alone.

Her body shakes against him, tremors running through her arms, her legs, her fingers. She clutches him like a child, as if he can protect her from what she has done, and he gathers her tightly against chest, murmuring words he knows mean nothing to her, but they make him feel better all the same.

He is at a loss.

She is silent.


	22. Chapter 22

Author's Note: Goodness, kids, you all are laying the prompts on me like crazy. I love it like always! Some of them I might not get to, as they are too long for this collection, but those that I don't put here may find themselves turned into longer works. This inspiration comes from **Rowtree**, and I hope it is what they were looking for.

* * *

He is sleeping.

It does not look restful.

She'd come to work out a minor issue with a program that wasn't anything particularly pressing, but it bothered her, pestered the back of her mind until she gave in and came. She is quite certain her footsteps on the echoing metal stairs would have woken him, but he lays there one a second-hand couch, in a fitful sleep, sweat beading his forehead, one arm tossed over his eyes. He doesn't look comfortable, not with the contorted position of his tall frame, and as she stares, half-formed words escape his lips.

She'd heard never to wake a dreaming man, but he seemed so...helpless. She never wanted to see him, never imagined him in such a state. She knew there were things he could never talk about, memories too fresh, too painful for him to convey, but these things were ruling him now, freed by the dark of his dreams.

Hesitant but sure, she tries to wake him from afar, calling his name. There is something about being woken abruptly to noise that she'd always hatred, and a prodding in the back of her mind told her perhaps this man is the same way. So she finds herself moving forward, dropping her purse on a table and wetting her fuchsia lips as they dried from fear.

She is afraid.

Of course she would be afraid. This man is almost wounded by his nightmares, and she's been told, warned that a wounded man has no full control of himself.

But he looks so helpless.

Gingerly, she lays a less-than-steady hand on the bare skin of his arm, whispering his name to ease him into awareness.

The world is not as it should be.

She is on the smooth, damp concrete floor, looking up at a man not her own. A rough, calloused hand has her around the neck, the vise grip denying her the air to protest, and in some skillful maneuver, her arms have been pinned above her head.

This man, he is not her Oliver.

A black look contorts his face to cold rage, no remnant of the smile, of the dancing eyes she's come to know as _him_ remain. He is the killer she'd been warned about, the man who thought nothing about taking a life. He is lifeless and hard and unforgiving, and for more than a moment, she sees the end.

And then he is away from her.

He skitters, scrambles off of her, the missing weight of him allowing her to breathe, his body taking on the form of an animal sorry for what it had done, terrified of the consequences. He holds out a hand in a gesture imploring her to stay away, just _stay away_, as he cowers at the end of the ratty couch.

She tries for her feet, but only manages her knees, thinking all the while perhaps remaining on his level will be a comfort, as though standing above him would be too harsh an action, lording over him the state she is in at his hands.

He is afraid.

Slowly, ever so gradually, she edges closer to this trembling man, calling his name again, worried he has not yet come back to her.

Now he is apologizing, saying her name and following it with a _sorry_, over and over as though the mantra will take away what damage he had done. She ignores his pleading looks, the thrown out arm barring her from him, continuing on her determined path.

A thin wet has soaked into her skirt, a bruise is forming on her wrists, and breathing has yet to become natural, but she finds the need to simply _soothe_ overriding whatever was causing her discomfort.

She softly takes hold of his shivering arm, guiding it around her waist, wrapping her free arm over his broad, scarred shoulders, drawing him near even as he weakly pulls away. He is cradled by her, heavy body pressed against her own, and as she feels those powerful arms tighten around her, she sighs.

He grips her close, crushing her to his chest, pain evident in the shaking of his breath and the tremor in his arms, and she knows this is all she can do. There is nothing else.

She rests her cheek on his forehead, runs her fingers through his hair.

He doesn't cry.

She feels tears in her eyes.


	23. Chapter 23

Author's Note: Something short and sweet inspired by **Kaden-san** and their work "Thea the Investigator".

* * *

He doesn't like cake.

Not anymore. The thought never struck him until he saw a confectionery delight staring back at him on the kitchen counter top. It was a modest thing, chocolate icing covering even darker, fluffy chocolate cake, and he remembers many a time reaching for such a calorie-laden treat without reservation.

But now, it would seem to him too sweet, too sugary for him to stomach, and he blames the island for taking away one more good thing in his life.

He doesn't like cake.

It is better for his figure.


	24. Chapter 24

Author's Note: **AnAverageGirl15**, this is for you. Not terribly long, and not very "grrr", but I considered Oliver to have a bit more restraint while in a public space. Particularly one he owns.

* * *

There are hands on her.

They are not pleasant.

She'd come late, forced to wade through a crowd that undulated with music and desire and inhibitions fueled by the alcohol flowing freely behind a generous bar. There were so many people, all dressed for the hunt, women prowling for the unwary and men ranging for the next luscious thing, and she felt entirely out of place.

A sweater. A skirt. Panda bear flats.

These are not appropriate club attire.

So she had kept to the fringes of the masses, bypassing cliques and hustling around gaggles of beautiful women, making her way to the back of the room with a much stealth as her unsuitable attire would allow. She'd been clear, all set with a sure route to the private portion of the room when a hand, thin and irksome, snaked around her waist to halt her progress entirely.

She thought about breaking that hand.

Saner thoughts prevailed.

Now she is standing next to a man not so much taller than she, with eyes that are too close together and lips that seemed fixed in a rather unsettling smirk. He attempts to pull her close, to direct her to him as if she were some sort of toy to be controlled.

She resists of course, but this seems to drive him on, another hand coming out to slip around her other side, lacing together with the previous to form a very disagreeable circle around her middle.

He is saying something she assumes he feels is sexy, but all she hears is mumbled static. There is nothing he can say to make this situation any more comfortable, and for the briefest of moments, she contemplates breaking something much lower of his.

His face descends towards hers, and she feels a repulsion she'd never thought she would feel, until she is freed from his hold with a quick, forceful pull of her elbow. She adjusts her glasses momentarily, steadying them from the sudden jolt, before looking up to her rescuer.

He does not look pleased.

In fact, he seems downright _hostile_.

The drunken admirer of hers makes a blustering stand, like a peacock ruffling useless feathers, but the man now holding her close sends a look so pointed it brooks no more argument.

He has pulled her close, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other lightly brushing her elbow, _claiming_ her as his own, and for some reason, she is fine with that. He is protecting her, shielding her and he is doing it without needing a bow, or a mask.

This is the man she sees under the hood, the man who can pin down a subject with his eyes alone; he'd done it to her more than once. But never like this, never with this much ferocity. It is cold, this look, and it rocks back the sodden fellow until he turns away, unwilling to meet those frosted blue orbs.

He doesn't let go.

His hand stays resting on her side, just above her hip, still protective, still claiming. He gently, firmly guides her to the safety of the back room, never breaking contact until she is at the locked metal door.

He releases her, reluctantly.

He tells her to be more careful.

She tells him thank you.


	25. Chapter 25

Author's Note: Well, my dears, I am back. I am going to take this opportunity to brag a bit on my youngest sister, who is the reason for my absence: she has graduated from her undergrad college and is now moved (over the past few days) to her graduate school. Unfortunately for my stories, they have been put on hold for this event. But now that she is settled in, I am free to add to this conflagration of shorts.

And now, something inspired by **InkPaperDoll488**.

* * *

Grapple training is not her strong suit.

He'd brought up concern about her strikes, and thought perhaps they should supplement with holds, a thought she was most adamantly against. But he is persuasive when he wants to be, so now she finds herself, yet again, plastered to the mat and not at all enjoying the situation.

He tells her to bend her body this way, and angle it that way and use everything she can to take advantage of any situation.

She thinks he hasn't been paying attention to her previous attempts.

They square off again, his large frame shifting easily as her own awkward, slightly smaller - she has to give herself credit, she isn't a tiny little thing - body moves with its own sort of staggered grace, her mind running through scenarios as if they are programs to be sifted and classified.

She takes too long using her mind.

He wastes no time.

His body impacts hers, his hands snake around her body, her head, twisting her around and settling in for a rather unfair maneuver, one she is quite certain she hasn't learned yet.

Well, to be honest, he _tries_ to twist her around.

Suddenly there is pain sprouting from the back of her head, and a hissed _sorry_ comes hurriedly out of his mouth. He releases her, only to find his fingers caught in the band holding back her blonde curls, soon delicately venturing to untangle himself, though failing rather miserably.

Before she can react, his idle hand reaches around, fingers hooking under the hair tie and pulling if clear in one abrupt, surprisingly painless gesture.

Her sweaty, mussed mane immediately fluffs down around her shoulders, freeing up his hand and giving her the appearance of a wild thing.

She is certain her flushed cheeks aren't helping the matter.

He slowly, gently removes his fingers from those golden curls, and she catches a look as it flits over his features, a look that speaks of something more, a transient warmth in his cold blue eyes that causes an unknown part of her to tighten.

His hand feathers over her jaw for the briefest of moments, then falls back to his side, another _sorry_ murmuring through pursed lips as he returns to his side of the mat. She blinks, once, twice, before rushing to manage her tangled locks, drawing them back into the very state they had started in.

Flustered doesn't cover her thoughts.

Grappling is not her strong suit.


	26. Chapter 26

Author's Note: Here is one for **bluebell-uk**. Not certain this is quite what they were looking for, but this is what came to mind. However, the thought of both Laurel and Felicity being in trouble at the same time intrigues me enough to want to write something a bit longer about the subject.

And I cannot thank you all enough for the reviews. You kids keep me going.

* * *

He aches for the past.

He yearns for the present.

One exists in his memories as a lover spited by his childish ways, made to grieve because of the selfishness of his heart. She is tied to him, bound to him, and he cannot recall a time in half a decade when he hadn't thought of her wonderful smile and her passionate personality and the hundreds of other things he found fading from memory after so long without her.

He had held tightly to what he could remember, entwining her into every thought, every action. All he did, it was to return to her.

He knew she would never forgive him, he knew it, came to terms with it, and promised himself he would never hurt her again. Did he love her? He cant's say he doesn't, he feels it every time he looks at her, every time they speak, even when he wears a hood and she wears that disapproving frown.

She is his past, a part of him he cannot be rid of.

Not yet.

Another waits for him, ever so patient, kind. He looks at her and sees a passion so different from the sort he remembers that it confuses, and excites him. She doesn't ask him for anything, not for herself; she urges him to aid another, to always care for those surrounding him.

She pries gently past his walls, not beating against them with fists and demanding voices, but with care, with words he doesn't shrink from as they ask, _ask_ him to open a door in the stone surrounding his ragged soul. She keeps him human, reminds him of what his is, what he will become, not what was left behind.

There is one he loves.

Another he waits to love.

He is undeserving of both.


	27. Chapter 27

Author's Note: Apologies for the long wait. As per usual, life has a tendency to step in and create a vacuum of inspiration and drive. However, here is something that managed to sneak through the cracks; I realized recently that Oliver rarely (never) wears brightly coloured clothing. As always, feed me with some fantastic prompts; I know you all are good at that.

Also, it seems there are new editions of the drabble and one-shot genre. I am happy to see people are taking up this different take on the usual story/chapter make-up.

* * *

He sees the word in shades of grey.

She lives in a rainbow.

Colour, always colour. Brilliant blues, neon greens, pink in every shade of rose, orange of the evening sun. She surrounds herself with their hues, gaily moving about her life wrapped in a shroud that buffets against the dirty city she walks in.

He doesn't know these colours; he's unable to wear them now. Grey, dark grey, light grey, drab. These are the colours he lives in, shades that hide him from notice, dark hues he draws close to him as protection.

The island left an unwavering impression.

Those colours, they would blend him into nothingness, keeping him safe from sight, safe from eyes that led to dangerous minds. This city, it is the same. There is nothing different about the concrete and steel world he lives in now, no reason for him to relinquish his hold on those dreary tones. To stay in the shadow of the city, the shadows of his family's regard, it is not something he will give up lightly.

Perhaps never.

His thoughts remind him that the people he hunts, the men who shower harm in their wake, they live in this grey world. He tells himself he stalks them for the good of the city, but what good is that?

He sees her, and he knows.

She is nothing if not radiant, those colours of hers setting her apart from him, from his reality. She doesn't belong to his grey world, doesn't fit into the cold light of the cement and glass and hardened faces; those colours are what he will change the city for. Her presence, if only for a moment, draws him from the dark, pulls him back from that grey he lives in to revel in colours he will never know.

Her hair is flaxen, her smile is luminous, her eyes are clearest blue. He will never come close enough to truly see their depth, they are colours he will never be close enough to touch.

He lives in a grey world.

She lives in a rainbow.


	28. Chapter 28

Author's Note: This one is for you, **AnAverageGirl15**.

* * *

He offered to give her a ride.

She should have known better.

It is a mixture of slick silken lines and a growling heart, and all she can think of is _no_. No. No chance she is straddling a form of transportation that has no doors and lacks any form of safety precautions.

He is smiling at her, as though he can guess her thoughts, and hands her a helmet. It is proffered to her with the insistence of one accustomed to being obeyed, and she has to agree, the look on his face is leaving very little room for her to argue. But taking it means she will have to get on the infernal two-wheeled machine, and that means she would be going against all her instincts of self-preservation, and _that_ means she is taking a step to insanity, and is this what happens when you realize you're going to do the thing you don't want to do simply because your boss is smiling his brilliant, mischievous smile?

She takes the damned helmet.

He looks as though he's won something she didn't realize she'd been offering, and he turns back to the black steel and carbon fiber to retrieve his own matching headgear. His dashing, smirking smile disappears as he slides the thing over his head, gesturing for her to do the same. It is her last chance to back out, to say no, thank you, I'll call a cab. She thinks these things, but her body is a traitorous thing that responds more readily to his smile than her mind.

The helmet goes on.

Now she's done it. Now she's crossed a line she can't step back over for the fear of looking like a small, scared child, which of course is exactly what she feels like. He didn't give her a choice, not really, and though she knew it, _knew_ he was playing with her, she couldn't stop herself. Not from lack of trying, of course. So here she is, staring at the sleek thing he's telling her to get on, and she wants nothing more than to simply slink away and pretend she'd never said okay. Well, not that she'd _actually_ said okay. But putting on the helmet had counted, right?

He slings a leg gracefully over the seat, motioning for her to come closer. She does as she is beckoned, determined suddenly to prove she's more than able to take her live into her own hands and toss it away because really, was she going to say no to him? His hand is held out to her, which she takes decidedly, and with her own awkward manner, she curves around behind him with minimal aid, immediately slipping her arms across his middle in what she assumes is the safest possible gesture she can make.

She can't see his face, but she catches the feeling he is pleased by this.

The engine rumbles to life, causing her fingers to tighten in the fabric of his jacket. He casts a look over his shoulder - one she obviously misses - before revving the machine once and gently easing out of the space he'd commandeered for the night. There is no hurry in his actions, no show of deft maneuvering and masculine displays of precise handling. He is taking things slow, leading her into a sense of comfort, even when she inches closer after they exit the parking lot and enter the main street.

She feels a chill of excitement tingle through her.

Suddenly this machine isn't so formidable isn't as life-threatening as she'd previously thought. He is close, right in front of her, encircled by her arms, warm and strong and all the other adjectives she could think of to describe this odd sense of safe she is feeling.

They are angling through traffic now, and the smooth flow of their path lulls the fear from her mind, leaving her able to focus on the moment, on the thrill of being in motion with so little to protect her.

Except he is here.

She knows he has toned down his normal speeds for something more moderate, a speed in which she can enjoy the ride and perhaps feel a second or two of controlled panic, the kind that comes from knowing you are safe yet excitedly reaching for something perilous.

She doesn't need the motorbike to feel this way.

He is _dangerous_.

She can't help reaching for him.


	29. Chapter 29

Author's Note: **InkPaperDoll488 **gave me this prompt, and I hope I did it justice. And as a side note, over 100 reviews! You kids are amazing, and I couldn't continue without your wonderful suggestions. This is just as much your work as it is mine.

* * *

He has a problem.

She isn't going to like it.

It hadn't been his fault, really. She must have had some program running he didn't know about, a hidden prompt that he'd failed to see until the last possible second. And then…disaster. He'd only typed in a few words, a simple search into one of the names on his too-long list, the sort of query he'd done a thousand times before, except in this particular instance, catastrophe.

A dialogue box had opened up, warning him there was a failure of some sort, the kind he wasn't even aware could _be_ a failure, which then progressed into a further warning screen imploring him to perform some action before drastic measures were taken.

He'd hesitantly clacked away at a few keys, worried they might bite back at him.

Now he sits frantic as the screen freezes, and yet another pop-up proceeds to tell him there will be a memory dump in less than sixty seconds. This…cannot be happening. He'd only searched a few words, harmless words, little words he'd typed in before, and now there was a spiteful prompt informing him he'd utterly failed at solving this computer puzzle and how could he have caused this disaster and thank you very much, I'm shutting down now.

He stares at the screen.

He hears an _ahem_.

His eyes close, his mouth goes dry and he wonders if his status as the meanest, toughest vigilante on the street will be enough to wheedle his way out of whatever this really bad situation had become.

He plasters on a smile, musters up a happy face, and turns to meet her withering look.

Nope.

He's in trouble.

The black screens behind him seem to be pointing at him, making faces and naming him as the reason for all this mess. She is glaring, _glaring_ at him, though her face holds no small amount of shock. Her hard work, her pride and joy, all turned to blank nothingness because he considered himself rather deft at handling advanced twenty-first century technology.

He tries, he really tries, to placate her, but the words aren't forming right and she is only giving him a harder, sterner stare the longer he goes on. Finally, thank the good Lord, she speaks up, having left him to flounder in his explanation long enough.

She says move.

He moves.

Hopping out of the normally comfy chair – which now resembled more an torture device – he steps aside and prays she isn't going to hold this over him for long. He doesn't think of her as the vindictive kind, but then again, he's never gone and completely ruined an entire computer system before. One that belongs to her, more than anyone else. One she's nurtured like a child.

She sits, ignores him, and goes about attempting to salvage what she could from the tangled mess he'd created. He can't help himself; he goes back to attempting to soothe her, and he gets a distracted _shooing_ motion from her hand, an adult dismissing a child in trouble for lack of knowing what punishment to deal them.

He gladly scurries away to find something less technologically advanced to carry on with.

He doesn't think she will allow him to play with the computer for a while.


	30. Chapter 30

Author's Note: I have yet to see the season finale, though I already have been spoiled as to its content. Needless, to say, it is rather depressing to hear what the writers have put our loved characters through, so I thought I would write a few, less gloomy shorts for you, at least until I have seen the episode for myself. This one was inspired by a conversation held between Oliver and McKenna.

* * *

It's the easy things he's forgotten.

Sitting down to a table surrounded by laughter and friends, expected to understand that this is good, real, a moment to be happy in, it is something he struggles with. A beautiful woman at his side, waiting for the charm and the spice and the flirty chat, she is now a frustrating obstacle to overcome. Rich cakes, plush pillows, evenings spent not under the hood, but under the eyes of anticipating family, they are all the little things he's knows he once understood as part of a good life, but now they are hoops and hurdles he must conquer in order to simply feel normal.

But he sees her, and he remembers.

She reminds him that laughter can be simple, pleasing, that dinner can be fun, particularly when held over a crowded desk and eaten out of white paper boxes. She doesn't expect him to be anything other than _him_, to be the man he has become without the hindrance of false faces and pretend smiles and hidden agendas. There is no pretense in her smile; she isn't waiting for the charm and the spice and the flirty chat, she is waiting for him to be comfortable.

There have been the moments before her, the moments in which he thought he could be himself, with people he assumed he could allow into the ragged, cold part of him he occasionally calls a heart, but those moments were fleeting, and they were followed with pain.

Then she breezed into his life with colour and words and endless enthusiasm and for the life of him, he couldn't understand how he'd ever forgotten how effortless late night take-out and good red wine could feel, how simply conversing with nothing to say could be liberating.

He said once it's the easy things.

He sees her, and remembers.


	31. Chapter 31

Author's Note: Plainly said, this is what I feel the beginning five minutes of the first episode of Season Two should be. I was very disappointed in the finale, but I have hope for the next season. Also, you have given me some very interesting prompts that I will be working on within the next week.

* * *

His friend is dead.

He wants to run, to hide away from the failures and the guilt and the pain and all of the things he's left undone and incomplete. He should have saved the city. It was his job to save the city. His father left a mission, a legacy he'd botched and it had come to this, a ruin of buildings and people, a tangled mass of death prayers and crumbling walls, and he can't breathe anymore.

He can't breathe.

His Laurel could help him, he wants her to help him, and he knows he should go to her. His friend made the sacrifice _he_ should have, died for the woman they both loved, and he wants to see her beautiful face, wants to wipe away the tears he knows are there.

He thinks maybe if he holds her tight enough, he can assuage the fear that nothing good has come of his actions.

But he doesn't go to her.

She is safe. He sees her with her father, knows she is within arms that can keep her from harm, and he turns away. She is something he's wanted for a lifetime, a love so painful at times he's nearly choked on it, but he has come to understand she isn't what he needs. She is an addiction he hasn't been able to free himself from, a thought, a memory made real from his return, but never anything more.

He'd imagined there was a destiny for them, a path laid out to be traveled by their hearts.

He doesn't go to her.

There is somewhere else he should be, a place where the only peace he's come to find resides, but it's not just the building, the room, the things within he finds solace in; it is the person who sits at a computer laden desk, hours on end, researching and nattering away, eating cold Chinese and demanding him to remember he is human. She gives him strength through her own, she keeps him safe from himself, and he comes to her.

He clatters down the stairs, sees the damage done, and cannot help calling her name. She turns, makeup smudged, glasses off, and they stand for the briefest of moments simply staring. He cannot explain _why_ he is here, there are no words for it, but she knows. He is broken again, something won't let him breathe properly, and he knows this something will char his already ruined heart.

They meet halfway, her arms reaching out to encircle him, his own unable to mirror the gesture. He needs this, needs _her_, but he doesn't warrant the loyalty, the kindness she is showing him. Her hair is loosened in its binds, and smells clean, fresh, a stark contrast to the chalky, burnt odor of his hated green costume, and his eyes close as he inhales.

She is murmuring something into his chest, words of worry, and comfort.

She has gathered him up and his holding him tight, as if she can keep at bay whatever has crawled out of the darkness to follow him. He feels something crack across the bands crushing his chest, the ones denying him the ability to take in breath, and suddenly there are tears on his face and falling into her hair and his hands move on their own as they clutch the pink fabric around her waist and tangle in those dyed flaxen locks. He clings to the warmth held so close, knowing he should be comforting her, soothing her, but unable to give voice to the thought. He should do these things, he _knows_ he should, but he can't.

There is guilt again.

She is wrapped up in him, not asking for his help, but providing her strength to him, providing that stubborn, iron will and God, he doesn't know if he can keep on his feet without her. She isn't telling him everything will be alright, that life will move on, that one day he will smile again. She isn't telling him _anything_. She is quiet now, allowing him to run from the failures and the guilt and the pain for just a while longer.

His friend is dead.

He has come to her.


	32. Chapter 32

Author's Note: Apologies for the absence. The drive to write has returned after a much-detested hiatus. However, it doesn't mean I haven't been _reading_. You all have put out such wonderful stories in the past week, or have updated those already in progress. I am excited to read what your talented imaginations have cooked up, and I hope this stretch of updates continues (as I am greedy and demand more to read).

* * *

He has a tell.

She noticed it during their first encounter, never thinking anything of it. The second time, she almost missed it, the half-smile he gave in response to her unwitting jab. She knew there was something behind the lopsided grins and the poor cover stories, knew that somewhere, past the thick veneer of playboy, there was something else lurking.

She didn't know, of course, what that something was. How could she? He put up a wall few thought to look past, a wall perfectly sculpted to keep others away, even when there were small endeavors to breech them by family. A friend.

Her.

They are something close to friends now, companions running through a list that carried an ever-greater weight, a mission he'd wrapped himself in to shield him from the closeness of those willing to try.

To shield him from heartbreak.

She sees these things in him through the small glimpses of pain, anger he displays when he thinks she isn't looking. And even when they talk, when she faces him in a conversation most usually focused on his vendetta, his mood, or what they planned to eat for the long nights stuck in a sparsely lit "cave", she can see that veneer thin to near clarity.

He doesn't know, at least, she _thinks_ he doesn't know, when his walls drop, when they slip and she can see the misery he is living in. It is that quirk of his head, the stare that lasts a moment too long, the flash of indecisiveness he shows when confronted with emotion; they speak volumes to her, all impressing on her that he is _something more_ than what he allows others to see.

He has a tell.

She will continue pretending she doesn't see it.


	33. Chapter 33

Author's Note: This is a touch darker than usual, and a little longer, but I wanted to explore how Oliver would react to not having a clear direction before him. Also, see "Burdens" by my favourite artist Kenny Wayne Shepherd. It explains Oliver quite well.

* * *

_Living in danger,_  
_I'm a hazard to myself._  
_Why can't these problems belong to someone else?_  
_I need an angel to protect me from myself,_  
_And take these burdens off my mind._

* * *

He craved it, the control of his body, of his mind, the control of his surroundings. Control of his world. But that world is unraveling, pulled and tugged strand by strand, frayed from his failures, his weakness. He can't protect what he should, he can't right the wrongs handed to him by a father lost in his own remorse, and it is eating at him from the inside.

There is chaos now, of a sort he'd never encountered, a chaos fabricated under the guise of _doing the right thing_. He'd know chaos, it wasn't a thing unfamiliar, but here…here it is an insidious creature that crept up under the shadow of a smile, and the scrawl of a signature on million dollar checks. This beast, it is unlike what he knows, and he fears it. Fears it for the same reason he accepted the chaos of the island: motivation.

The island was at first a terrifying unknown, filled with monsters and men he feared, and then a place of clarity, a setting in which he was able to make sense of things, of life and himself. He'd found peace through the taming of the chaos, though to be fair, the taming consisted of violent acts of vengeance and death.

But here, here there are no missiles, no men in masks or men with wicked quick blades. Here, there are shark-tooth smiles, wealth thrown to the feet of those willing to do so much for so little, and _good intentions_.

They terrify him.

The island was a place that bred anger, violence, and perhaps that is why he had thrived there, in a place destined to polish those ready to fight for blood. But the island had not been conceived from good intentions; it was birthed for one purpose, as dark and maligned as that purpose may have been. Even the conquering of that small slice of hell had come with so little reward, the only respite stemming from the knowledge that numerous others had been spared a part to play in someone else's cruel play.

This city had been brought to heel under the auspices of "good intentions."

The calamity created had been born from a fanatical – and that is his only way of describing something so all-consuming – need to deliver a righteous blow to the dark creeping into the city. A gangrenous wound, leeching life from the surrounding living flesh, that is how the man responsible justified the act. _Believed_ the act was for noble intentions.

The notebook, and everything tied to it, was an instrument of law being forced upon a methodical, calculated chaos, and he could understand that. He can see even now the patterns in the random acts, and knows that chaos was curbed by his actions, and the actions of those he calls friends. But now, there is only a world of unknowns, a feeling of complete impotence garnered from the apparent failure of fulfilling the promise, the blood-sealed pact made to his father.

He is no longer in control.

Going out every night, setting even the smallest of transgressions right, had been his balm, as little as he wanted to think on it. He needed the feeling of even minor boundaries enforced on the lawlessness surrounding the city, ached for it.

Lusted after it.

He can't admit that to himself, because it would mean he will never leave the island. It is a drug to him, no matter how forcefully he reminds himself he wants out, wants to throw away the Hood and return to the world of normal, smiling faces. He can't. He won't. There is power in the control, power in the knowledge that he is master of himself, and of his world. He cannot predict every event, cannot hold all accountable for their actions, but he strove to do just that.

His old world is crumbling, shattered by an event he could not stop, an event begun by twisted valour, and ended in part by an arrow.

This new world has no sense of direction, there is no map set out for him by another's hand, and he is consumed by the chaos. He wants to strike back, but at what? His blood is up, his mind is fractured, and his heart has no more to give; there is no act in which he can absolve his failure, no moment of violence and death that can soothe the anger and anguish lashing him from inside.

He is afraid.

The control he clung to, it has been ripped away, and he is left choking down the emotions that control had tamed for so long. His fear, hatred, anger, self-loathing, self-_doubt_, it all rallied against him, free to roam where that control had once fenced them out. The cold part of him, the part that flared red when he could taste another's death so close, it whispered shadowy words of encouragement, fanning his desire to punish, to lash out at whatever he could deem a worthy target.

But there is no one left.

He is at war with himself.

He is losing.

She is here.

She has allowed him to come to her, encouraged him with small gestures, and even softer words. He wants so desperately to run from her, to shield her from what he is, what he truly is. There is no varnish of playboy, of doting son. There is only the man who hasn't left a hell he feels closer to than home, a broken man who's heard more pleas for mercy than bedroom moans, and cannot help feeling that he doesn't mind that fact. If she knew that about him, would she still be standing here, looking at him with some mixture of emotion he hasn't quite pinned down?

He can't stop the motion of his hands, the struggling exhale as he pulls her to him, eyes closing at the feel of her skin and the notion that she _will not leave_. He is a man beyond any repair, something broken and without any use besides that of death, and she is wrapped around him as though he were a precious thing, one to be held closely without reservation.

There is still anger, still doubt and loathing, but they are distant now, no longer threatening to erupt from him without mitigation. She is excising the black around his cold heart, and there is pain accompanying this act, the dark part of him relinquishing its hold with reluctance.

He gathers her tighter, hoping the closeness will help with the surgery. He knows he is using her, knows that even though she has freely given herself to this operation – one likely to span more than just the brief moment they are caught up in - he is going to take something from her, perhaps that small bit of innocence still lingering in her fascinating blue eyes.

He is shaking, and her arms are wrapped steadily around him, dragging him from the hatred and the fear, grounding him in the now. He is being selfish, using her for a release, but he needs her. He needs, _craves_ her touch and the calm it brings. There is nothing else, nothing aside from the heartbeat before a kill, that stills the monsters inside him, and he knows he will never let her stray now that he's lost control.

She reigns above the chaos.

He can no longer breathe without her.


	34. Chapter 34

Author's Note: Another longer one, though this time it is a little less angst and a lot more...little, short dress. It takes place three weeks after the season finale. No spoilers.

* * *

She is at a club.

It isn't Verdant.

Her dress is short and blue, gliding over her curves with a whisper of suggestion as to the woman beneath its silken fabric. It is not a dress for cocktails, polite dinner parties or first dates; it is a declaration of intent, of the entertainment hunted for the night.

Her blonde mane, swept back and piled into some form of a barely-tamed bun, shimmers with highlights of the morning sun. No slick ponytails, no tumbling locks of perfect curls, no elegant pins or tasteful clasps. Heels, perhaps an inch too tall to be considered classy, exaggerate her walk, one already given in to a slink she'd never shared with those so close to her. Never flaunted in front of _him_.

She is on the dance floor, arms raised, body relishing the pounding of the bass and the overwhelming crescendos and the swell, the rise and fall of the undulant masses seething around her, crushing in on her and breathing a life of its own, a wild thing she is now a part of. It surrounds her in movement, rushing in on all sides, pulling her into a world centered on touch and skin, close bodies and half-lidded looks promising more to the night than words alone could convey.

This rush of humanity, she sought it out to replace the dead inside, the void quickly spilling into her life, threatening to gobble her up if ever she faltered. She needs to be reminded there is life, a world beyond what she sees from behind a computer, a world that doesn't need her genius, her care in order to survive.

It had been three weeks.

She is choking on the inadequacy of her actions.

So she is here, remembering what it felt like to be simply alive, to banish _what ifs_,_ should haves_, and _couldn't_ from her mind, if only for a moment, a precious moment where she is a woman and these are the people of the city and no one is demanding anything of her.

She is simply a woman.

There is a hand around her waist.

It is broad, warm, with fingers splayed as is slides around from behind, embracing, possessing her from her middle, sliding lower as the music slows to a rumble of noise, the rhythm linking them closer. Some part of her says to look, to know the face of the man, but she doesn't care. She finds comfort, a surreal electrical calm that floods her from the skin beneath his hand, the touch of him reminding her that she is human.

She is a _woman_.

He bridges whatever distance is left between them, their bodies finding one another with a fit that takes her breath. She leans into him, bare, pale skin of her back brushing against smooth fabric, and under the insistent guidance of that broad hand, she finds her entire length curve into him. With an unintentional sigh, she allows her head to rest back on his chest, one arm reaching up behind her and fingers fluttering over a strong, stubbled jaw. She can feel the muscles of his body tense, flex hard under that simple, ghosting touch, and her eyes close under the feeling of _want_ that grips her core.

Another hand weaves over her middle, palm settling just below the deep neckline of her blue, blue dress, and she moans. The sound is drowned instantly by waves of a rhythmic cacophony, but there is no doubt the action was noted. Those firm hands clench around her, their grip telling her this man desired her, _wanted_ her, and that knowledge brought a self-assured, smirking smile to her crimson lips.

Then there are words whispered in her ear.

They say she is remarkable.

There is a shake in her breathing, a shiver on her skin, and she presses closer to keep on her feet, the feel of him grounding her, but feeding the white-hot embers smoldering somewhere deep inside, in a place she'd never known to burn. His breath is on her neck, warming the already feverish skin, with the feather touch of his lips following, curving down her throat before trailing back to her jaw.

She wants to turn, but knows it will break whatever wicked spell this had become.

Her hands drop to the hands now caressing her body, fingers entwining as his lips brush over her ear. There is something primal about them now, where only touch seems to matter, as though the place where skin meets skin in the place they can feel alive. She wants to feel those lips on hers, wants to feel them on more than just the places exposed, on nothing less than everything. Her hips rock into his, and though she cannot hear it, the rumble of a growl reverberates through his deep chest.

She smiles that shameless smile again.

His hands slide across her waist, feeling the curved planes of her body before settling on her hips, fingers still locked with her own. What little gentle nature his actions may have held was fleeting now, as he gripped her with enough force to bruise, dragging her up to him, nearly taking her from her feet.

There is a laugh in her throat.

She turns her face now, turns to look at him and meets eyes that are so full of hunger she nearly forgets where she is, almost forgets _who he is_.

He tells her he needs her.

She tells him she knows.

* * *

Author's End Note: I see Felicity as a real woman, someone who has many different sides to her. The confident woman she portrays counting cards isn't something I see as just another mask. I think that is truly _who she is_. Everything else is a show she puts on for the world. Also, don't ask how Oliver found her. He's just talented that way.


	35. Chapter 35

Author's Note: Fluff, perhaps. With a touch of angst? I have no idea anymore. I write whatever Oliver and Felicity tell me - and I say that at the risk of sounding slightly mad. For this short, please listen to the French group Phoenix, particularly "1901", "Lisztomania", or "Lasso". I turn to them to find inspiration for Felicity.

* * *

There is music coming from his club.

It isn't on the dance floor.

He is supposed to be on a business trip, one that would take him far from the city, far from his cause. He is needed, he'd been told, by no small gaggle of lawyers, department managers, and men whose names ended in a long string of capital letters. He hadn't wanted to go, of course, but there was an urgency to their tone that made him second guess cancelling once again.

Yet here he is, standing rather amused on the metal grating of the stairway, staring at quite possibly the most captivating woman he's ever met.

The music, it is something up-beat but odd, a mixture of quirky that fit her _just right_. But it isn't the music he is focused on; it is _her_. She is in jeans and a loose top, flaxen hair braided off to one side, something different from her usual pony-tails and occasional loose mane, her standard vibrant lipstick gone for favour of a blush pink, a colour he isn't certain might not be all her own.

Her shoes, those are what make him smile.

They are the white flats she only rarely wears, the ones with bright yellow duckies splashed over the toe. She wears them specifically when she is feeling carefree, happy; she'd told him as much without words some time ago, when he first began noticing her clothing changed with her mood. These peculiar shoes are only on her feet when she is having a good day.

Today seems to be a good day.

She is turned away from him, half-full wine glass in one hand while the other waves patterns in the cool air, in time to the music playfully piping from a weathered CD player set on a workbench. A bottle, mostly empty, rests on her computer desk, the cork and bottle opener tossed down beside it, still mated. The thought strikes him that this is a deeply personal moment he has intruded upon, and perhaps he should take his leave before she notices him.

He ignores it.

She is adorable.

There is that word again. _Adorable_. He has never known a person who so embodies the sentiment. She is dancing, or rather, moving to match the rhythm of a new song, wiggling and shimmying and looking _free_. Happy. Relaxed. This is so unlike the woman he sees every day, a woman who he knows to be strong, independent, lovely...but now he sees her with all barriers down, without the shield that flies up at his presence. She thinks she hides that shield, but he knows better. He does the same.

He is fascinated.

Her face is turned now, and he can see that her eyes are closed, a smile playing on blush lips, and the strictly unacknowledged desire discover what expression she would make should he taste those lips, taste _her_ wells up inside a part of him he wishes would leave him be. He needs to see her as a companion, co-worker. As a friend.

He looks at her dancing about with joy on her face and he thinks he wants more.

She takes a slow sip of red, red wine, her body continuing to sway with the music. It is then that a plucky _beep_ can be heard over the bouncing lyrics, and she immediately shifts her attention to a screen. The glass is returned to the table, and blindly her fingers reach out to the small stereo, shutting it off in a distracted manner, as her focus is solely on the computers.

The moment is gone.

She is back to his IT girl.

He feels a pang somewhere in his chest, one that stems from the knowledge that he may never see _that_ woman again.

Gathering his wits, mentally straightening himself, he proceeds down the stairs, purposefully creating more noise than would be considered normal, announcing his arrival. She whips around, eyes wide as though she's been caught doing something far worse than simply listening to music and drinking in his work space. He tries to smother a smile, he really does, but the look plastered on her face is too much.

He beams at her.

Her tension cracks, and instead of babbling, rambling on in some poor excuse or another, she appears to allow the uncertainty of the moment pass with a short laugh. Her hands go into motion, one smoothing over her jeans, wiping away unseen wrinkles, while the other fumbles with her braid. It is obvious she is nervous about being seen so different than typical, but he sails right past the insecurity and asks after her research.

She gives him a small smile, one he knows to be gratitude, before launching into a detailed, tangential presentation on her work.

He hopes she has the occasion to wear the ducky shoes more often.


	36. Chapter 36

Author's Note: This is a little something for Ferggirl99.

* * *

Please dogsit, they'd asked.

Happy to, she'd said.

Now, she was slightly less than thrilled at the disaster the situation was rapidly devolving into. Sure, the day had begun bright and sunny and full of promise, paired with the presence of a lovable dog, but currently, it seems the world has closed in on her and there is no hope of survival.

Perhaps she is being a touch dramatic.

She'd picked up the fluffy, handsome canine from a couple's home, friends, the latter being thrilled to spend time away from home without the need to worry about the former's state of being.

He is a sweet dog, she must admit, and when they'd both hopped into her little red car, he'd immediately taken the front seat, looking for all the world as though he belonged there. Of course, she wasn't going to argue with him, as he seemed quite content where he was, and to be honest, anything to make the day pass by without major event, she would allow.

It had been an early pickup, and she hadn't felt like going back to her apartment. The skies had been bright and clear, the wind promising of a cool night ahead; she'd felt energized, happy, and for the first time in a long time, she hadn't felt the need to brood on matters that made her heart feel heavy.

So off they had gone to a park, the big, green spaces inviting not only her furred friend, but herself as well. She'd needed that, needed the freedom of those open, emerald swaths of land, and from the looks of him, her partner had needed it too. They'd spent hours simply wandering, taking the paths set out for them, or forging their own, stopping only for a snack break, one that had been taken at a hotdog stand, where of course she'd bought one for him as well.

She'd briefly debated on the morality of giving a hotdog to a canine.

Then they'd gone back to their play, her black-and-white companion gathering new friends along the way, though the intense meeting between himself and a teacup Yorkie had proven to be too much for the larger border collie. To make it up to him, she had produced a squeaky ball that seemed to banish all thoughts of the dreaded, tiny terror, as he'd immediately fixated on the toy with rapt attention.

Hours had passed before she realized there had been things she'd needed to finish up. At the Foundry. In the lair.

She'd looked at him, he'd looked at the ball, and the ball sat in her hands with a pleading stare.

They'd all gathered up back into her car, and the debate as to whether he should come with her had lasted all of thirty seconds. He was such a well behaved dog, wasn't he? Surely, nothing terrible could come of his presence.

Their arrival had been comically cast in a covert light, where she'd parked, waited to see if there was anyone about, then ushered him inside with all due haste, whispering words of encouragement and issuing demands that he stay calm. Quiet.

She had felt an unusual sense of accomplishment, having successfully smuggled him into a deserted club.

The next few minutes went by with her showing him around, instructing him in what she had assumed to be her stern voice that he should come to her if he needed anything. Like the bathroom, for example. Or water. Or a good petting. He had seemed rather responsive, listening to her words, though for the most part he simply wandered around, nose at work as he had searched the space for anything amusing, such as a cat, or a treat. Or a ball.

A ball.

Bright and yellow and bouncy.

She'd been confident that he was settled in, his water and food placed beside her desk, so she'd set herself to the task of researching a thin lead on a particularly malicious target. It had been no small amount of time before she'd felt a wet snout on her forearm, nosing her to play. The research had been running along with more than a few bumps along the way, which meant her attention had not exactly been focused on her fluffy companion.

Deciding to take away the thing he was offering, in the hopes that perhaps he would simply fall back to doing whatever dogs do when left to their own devices, she'd retrieved a round toy from his mouth and set it distractedly on her desk.

It hadn't registered to her just what the toy was.

He'd prodded her a few more times, but when she'd not responded to his urging, he'd walked away. After a few moments, however, he'd returned, another "toy" ready for her to play with. Once again, she'd taken it from him, and placed it on her desk.

Time after time, a ball was offered to her, and time after time, she'd refused to throw it.

Now she is in trouble.

The beautiful, intelligent, happy dog had been presenting her with a gift, one he'd thought she would have enjoyed, and she had ignored him. It had suddenly occurred to her that there were more than just a few yellow, bouncy balls on her desk, and there was only one place they could have come from.

Biting her lower lip, she turns in her black swivel chair to take in a sight she is certain hadn't been there when they'd arrived.

Tennis balls are everywhere.

On the floor, under desks, on the couch, and scattered over every sparring mat in the room. She stares for a moment, then two, before turning her attention to the traitorous canine, who is currently lying happily on the floor beside a small crate, tennis ball between his paws as he gnaws on it with obvious glee.

There is a soft _pop_, and the ball is deflated.

Horrified, she takes in the room again, only to find most of the bright yellow balls a bit flatter than she remembers spheres to be.

This…this cannot be happening.

Not only had her furred partner completely emptied the crate of tennis balls routinely used for training, he had squashed a majority of them without a care. He glances up at her, wagging his tail as if to say "play now?" but the sentiment is lost on her as she narrows her eyes at the treacherous canine. It is her fault, of course, she can't deny that; she'd been so intent on her work that she'd even missed the balls' death cries. However, _he_ is the one that had created the mess, therefore shouldn't he be the one to clean it all up?

She isn't sure how to get a dog to sweep.

Now she can't help but to imagine him in a maid outfit.

And then she laughs, because really, how can you not? The room is a disaster, and her vigilante would most likely have a heart attack should he see his lair in such a state, but the look on the collie's face was too excited, too pleased to keep her angry. So she laughs at him, and begins shuffling the tennis balls back into his general direction, making note to separate those that are slightly less than useful.

They clean up together, her dumping the usable balls back into the crate, him pulling them back out to play. She is still tickled when her computer beeps at her, informing her that some program has stumbled across important intel, causing her to forget her current task and hurry over to the desk.

She doesn't, however, forget a ball.

Sitting at her desk, lair still a mess, she types away, occasionally tossing his favourite toy across the room, smiling at his prancing steps as he returns it to her. It is a relaxing act, calming, and she now understands why he wanted to share it with her.

Please dogsit, they'd asked.

Happy to, she'd said.


	37. Chapter 37

Author's Note: This comes from a few _hint hints_ on tumblr and here as well. It isn't a lot of snuggles, but this is how Oliver wanted to play it out. So I let him.

* * *

There is something moving in the trash.

It has big, round, blue eyes.

He's standing at the "secret" side entrance to the lair, and all he can do is stand and stare at the pile of rubbish left mounded beside the door. It isn't supposed to be here, this pile of black plastic bags and cast-off bits of waste, but it is heaped up in a tumbling mess against the worn brick wall, a testament to the lazy nature of those working in the club kitchen.

He makes a mental note to reprimand for this.

But regardless of why or how the rubbish pile has come into existence, it sits here now with a squirmy little thing wallowing around in the loose wrappers of a half-eaten burger. A frown crosses his face when his ears pick up the hint of a growl, one higher pitched than the basal tones of a fully grown canine.

And then the little thing comes into full view.

It is black – he thinks – with one ear floppy, tiny white teeth bared at him as it stands guard over the soggy remains of its prized hamburger, a small but determined snarl piping out from huffing lungs. It is ragged on the edges, thin, but it has that undefinable something in its clear blue eyes that speaks of a battle-hardened spirit in young soul; the pup has fought for the near-nothing it possesses, and it continues to do so now. This little thing, it is holding its ground, willing to fight for this scrap of what the vigilante would have once called nothing; to the pup, that scrap is everything.

He understands the sentiment.

The little thing has his hackles raised, fluffing in an attempt to inspire fear in the man in green, a reaction that doesn't go unnoticed. Slowly, gently, the man drops to a crouch, settling his bow across both knees. One of his gloved hands reaches up – just as slowly – and removes the hood shielding his face; he doesn't know why he should take such a risk while still out in the open, but it feels like the right thing to do. The pup gives him a wary eye, unsure of this new tact, and issues another, less threatening growl.

They eye one another for a moment or two, just long enough for them both to take stock of the situation: the pup, it isn't about to waver on its decision to protect its small claim, and the man isn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon. So here they sit, staring, until the small, dirty pup puffs out its cheeks in a short bark, as though saying _alright, let's see where this goes_.

The vigilante sucks in his lower lip, bouncing on the balls of his feet until he makes a decision on his next move. Letting out a breath that nearly mimics the pup's last, the man deliberately, unhurriedly pulls the glove off his right hand, peeling the black material off calloused fingers and stuffing it in the cuff of his left sleeve. All the while, the pup watches him, wary yet oddly confident in its position in the whole situation.

As though he would be caressing a breeze, the vigilante reaches out and offers his hand to whatever the little thing has planned for it. As first, it seems as though there would be growling and gnashing of teeth, but the pup suddenly blinks, its sharp eyes still wary yet now holding a curious light in them. He doesn't push the situation, doesn't encourage with words or sounds or gestures; he simply sits and waits, willing to allow the tiny, fluffy canine to make the first move.

It takes a sniff.

It takes a step forward.

A smile, one born of sheer happiness and delight, more rare than summer snow, lights up his face at the sight of the pup showing a shaky trust in him. It sniffs him in the manner of all tiny things – quickly, with purpose – then steps back to process the moment. Its train of thought is obvious, and after it mulls for a second, it repeats the process, though now it takes two steps, enough to slide under the man's fingertips, depositing greasy garbage residue and grime on his skin.

He doesn't mind.

Taking a chance, the he curls his fingers, gently scratching the pup behind his floppy ear. The act doesn't go unrewarded, as the little thing goes stiff, hesitant, but slowly gives in to the affection, leaning into the man's hand and licking his palm.

He smiles again, fully smiles and can't help thinking this is a perfect scene.

Deciding to go with the moment, he reaches out with his other hand, and softly, firmly takes the pup around the middle, cradling it with both hands. It growls at him again, a warning, but he simply lifts it to eye level, giving it a flat look that worked on little sisters and body guards alike (not, however, IT girls). With another huff, it settles its squirming and allows itself to be switched to one hand as his free one unzips the front of his jacket, down to the strap of his quiver.

Giving the pup one more look, he turns it round and slides – because, to be honest, with all the filth coating the poor thing, that is exactly what happens – the furball down into his green costume, shifting around slightly to get things situated_ just right._ The pup's front paws are hanging out of the jacket, flopping about, and its face is just high enough to begin licking his chin.

He laughs.

Genuinely laughs.

Taking up his bow, he stands and keys in the code to his secret door, slipping inside and down into the one place he finds peace.

The little thing, it fights for what it wants, is affectionate past fear.

He thinks he will call it Tommy.


	38. Chapter 38

Author's Note: I know there aren't supposed to be place-holder posts, but I have removed Chapter 38 and placed it in it's own story due to much complaining and gnashing of teeth in my inbox about it being in a T rated fic. The new work is "Open My Heart and Let it Bleed onto Yours", and it is properly notated as "M" rated. There will be a new chapter up soon based on a prompt from tumblr, so please bear with me during the transition.

Thank you all.


	39. Chapter 39

Author's Note: So, this is from a prompt on tumblr, but I am not certain this is _exactly_ what was in mind when the person gave it.

* * *

There is something wrong with her body.

It won't let her up.

She has no control over her arms, her fingers limp, while her legs are splayed out, one under her, the other at an angle against the shower. She doesn't want them to be all gangly-like and everywhere, so she tries to make them work, tries to force them into submission. It seems they are having none of her confused demands, so instead they wobble around a bit, the one propped against the shower flopping over onto the tile below her.

She doesn't understand, doesn't like that there is nothing she can command her body to do, and it is frustrating to say the least. An impossible problem, and she hates those. She hates puzzles. She hates anything she can't rationalize, and this is perplexing. There is no reason she should be down here, on the cool, black-and-white tile of her bathroom, the hard surface riding against the curves of her body, creating points of pressure that she feels only dully, somewhere in the back of her mind where that sort of pain doesn't matter.

Something warm, wet is sliding down her face.

It is the water, hot from the shower. It has to be. What other explanation could there be? She was just in a shower, singing to some obscure band that _of course_ no one in her department has ever heard of, and then she'd gotten out. Stepped out and reached for a towel. Simple. Easy. But then, she is down here, all discombobulated and cold, the heat of the shower fleeting as she lies facing the closed door of her economy sized bathroom.

This warm wet, it is confusing.

Her hair obscures her wavering view, and for a moment, a moment only, she thinks this wet is from her blonde curls, the water dripping free of them. But this wet feels different. Feels thick. Once again, she wills her body to move, and all she can manage is an arm to bend at the elbow, her hand brushing against a loose object in the floor beside her. This new player in her puzzling game seems familiar, and after a long moment, her brain produces the words _mobile phone_.

She should use this. She should call someone, shouldn't she? Call for help? Dial a number, three digits, and there would be men in uniforms and men with gurneys and a flock of people who would supposedly know what they were doing but then again, they would have to open the door, and silly her, she is laying right next to that.

Then there is ringing.

A happy bunch of notes sings through the air, announcing a caller, and she cannot remember just how to answer. Her fingers won't work. They are rebelling against her, and she is frustrated, angry with her body's evident betrayal. The bouncing tune ends, and the room grows quiet again, though it is a still sort of quiet that worries her, because she should be moving, she should be getting ready for the night.

The night. Isn't she supposed to do something tonight?

Her mind, it won't work either. There is fog and wisps of thought, but nothing she can take hold of, nothing she can force into coherent thoughts. There is something tonight, something she is supposed to do, a place she is supposed to be, but the place, the reason just won't come.

There is ringing again.

The same tune, the same notes flutter through the air, but now their presence is more keenly felt, as they seemed louder, aren't they louder? Aren't they _too_ loud? Her brain is trying to tell her something, but a sharp sort of pain comes from listening to this ringing tone, and she just wants it to stop.

It stops.

Now the quiet takes over again, and she has the strangest desire to say something, to make the quiet _not_ quiet, to babble to the nothing that is in the room, to natter on to herself or the toilet or the vanity or anything that would pretend to listen, really. But no words come. No words. Simple sounds, half-formed syllables are forced out, but they mean nothing. She is trying to speak, she wants to give herself a pep talk, to give herself some encouragement in her drive to move, even a bit. The sounds, however, are choked behind a tongue too thick to mold them correctly, and all she manages are a few unintelligible pleas into the silence of the room.

She doesn't know how much time has passed, but she feels increasingly chilled, the cool tile now cold against her, and there is the distinct wet of lukewarm water gone cold, but now she feels something different, a texture she hadn't noticed before, and it is wrapped about one of her legs, crinkled and plastic and wet too.

Her mind in on this new thing when she hears a sound from on the other side of the door.

It is a something similar to what she was trying to do earlier, and she envies the person who can make the sounds with structure, actual formed words. She hears this voice and thinks maybe she should get up, maybe she should tell the person don't worry, she'll be out in a moment. But her body is sticking to its current campaign of _no_ and there is no movement other than her toes curling slightly and her mouth attempting to ghost out a reply.

This voice, it seems to be entreating her, asking for a reply to the calls made but never answered. It sounds concerned, and once again she is struck with the thought that she should tell whomever this voice belongs to that they shouldn't worry, she will be out in just a few.

But she can't say this.

She is frustrated, and angry now.

The door, it cracks open, hesitant, and that voice questions her again, but again, she can make no reply. The entire situation was becoming a messy affair that she really wanted none of, but here she is, stuck on the floor of her bathroom, unable to stand because her body was being rebellious and there is a voice now attached to a person entering her bathroom. Rather rude, if you asked her. Which she thinks this person should do. Ask. After all, this is a lady's room. Very rude indeed to enter without knocking first.

A face enters the room, one she thinks she remembers, and it looks...frightened. Terrified. The door is opened just enough for the person to enter entirely, his large frame moving to her with grace she envies, talking to her all the while, questioning and soothing and other things and why is it this person making her feel better?

Hands, rough, calloused, stoke her arms, and then move to her head. She wants to tell him she is fine, but the words, they just won't come. The sounds, they are there, but the words...she has never been without them. This thought suddenly terrifies her, layering yet another emotion over a thousand others she can't process because her brain, it won't work right. It is stuck between on and off, and she doesn't know how to flip the switch all the way over.

His hands are red now.

He cradles her blonde head - dyed, but she keeps his secrets - and implores her to stay awake, to stay with him. He looks so worried, so incredibly worried, and she sees pain on his face, a pain she put there. She is fretting now, over him, over his worry, and the fretting turns to frustration and that breaks the dam.

Tears rim her eyes, fall silently down her pale cheeks.

He frowns, then pastes a false smile, brushing away the rivulets of salty water as they run over her skin, smearing red with fingertips, telling her it will be alright, that she will be alright, that she has nothing to worry about. But this isn't about her. She is the cause of his current condition, and why can't she just say the words? Just say the words and he will leave behind his worry and the entire situation would be resolved.

But his hands are red.

Is that her red? Did that come from her? Why would it come from her? She doesn't understand, and for a brief moment, she is grateful she cannot move. She doesn't want to see that sort of red from her. It means pain. It means hurt. She doesn't like either, and actively avoids it. But then there is the presence of the red. Something is wrong, very wrong, but her brain won't let her understand it fully. Not yet.

There is abruptly a black thing in his hand, the thing her mind had offered up the phrase _mobile phone_ to, and a call is being made, a call she couldn't have made on her own. It is quick, his voice clipping each word, and as abruptly as it came, the call ended. The mobile phone is disappeared into his jacket, and his attention returns to her.

He tells her to let go the shower curtain.

She finally realizes her other hand had a fist full of the plastic curtain, holding to it as though for dear life, clutched so tightly her knuckles had gone white. He reaches out, covering her fingers with his larger hand, and gently, he pulls her grip free, folding her arm against him, fingers entwining in hers, a smile born of terror and fear struck on his face.

She is naked.

She doesn't care.

She knows he doesn't care.

So they are here now, not caring about her nakedness together.

Some small part of her mind snickers and says this is the first time she would be naked in front of this man, snickers at her and laughs at the irony of it all. But he is here, he is holding her, cradling her, and the red, it is slowing. She can see the fear growing, but she doesn't feel the pain where the red comes from. In fact, she is feeling little at all.

Her eyes are heavy, and he is clinging to her, his own brilliant blue eyes threatening tears, and she thinks maybe he might cry too. Well, they can't both cry. That is just silly. But her tears, they are slowing, too. They are no longer creating delicate trails across her skin; they are clinging to her lashes, but they are not falling.

She can feel the heat of him, something she is craving, but it doesn't seem to warm her. She is cold, so cold, but it won't matter soon. She is a blonde, but she isn't that blonde; the red is slowing, he is afraid. Her fingers, they curl in his, and he grips them all the tighter. He can't seem to find words, and she sympathizes with the feeling. This person, _her_ person, leans forward, and she can see those tears that had been threatening were now following through.

He begs her.

_Please don't leave me alone._

She thinks maybe she should listen to him. He shouldn't be alone; he is useless on his own. But the red, it has almost stopped, and the cold has set into her bones. She wants to tell him, wants to comfort him, tell him he won't be alone, but again, the words, they won't come. So, she smiles at him, smiles and closes her eyes, eyes that had become too heavy to keep open.

He isn't alone.

He will always have her.


	40. Chapter 40

Author's Note: Here is a continuation of Chapter 39, as there was a little more than a few of you upset that Felicity might or might not have died. The previous prompt from tumblr was by showmeyourpasodoble and it was "Felicity has a medical emergency not vigilante related and panics." Not exactly a Felicity "panicking" moment, but it was a medical emergency, right?

* * *

There is too much silence in the room.

She isn't supposed to be so quiet. She is supposed to be bouncy and laughing and chastising him, not laying so small in a bed made for sick people. He couldn't help noticing that, either, how small she seemed under the tubes and the wires and all the contraptions prodding pretend life back into her.

She had never seemed frail to him, never seemed delicate; true, he'd wanted to protect her, he thought he _had_ to protect her, but never because he thought she was incapable of making the adult decision to do the things they did. He wanted to protect her because he felt it was the only thing _he could do for her_.

The IT girl, she was strong, had a mind of her own, and she did so much for him, gave so much for his cause that at times he wondered if she ever saw it, saw the awe he had for her; of course she didn't. He was too careful around her, always keeping up a wall that she had begun to slowly tear down with words and actions he'd never heard from anyone else.

When he returned from the island, people pitied him. They asked him what it was like.

She had only wanted to help him in the _now_.

How many times had he wanted to tell her? How many times had he thought about sitting her down and letting out the anger and the guilt and the frustration of knowing he was doing so little to help a city that was dying? He knew she would listen, he knew beyond a doubt she wouldn't judge him, knew that she would attempt to shoulder what burden she could and carry it forward without asking anything of him in return.

So seeing her here – blonde hair partially shaved, skin mottled black and blue, elegant hands stuck full of needles – put a hole through him that he can't manage. He can't look at her and not think that she had been – no, she _might_ have been – taken away so easily, ripped from his world as quickly as his heart could beat.

He has so much to tell her.

There was too much they hadn't said, _he_ hadn't said. He wanted to tell her how much she meant to him, and not in the childish manner of his previous life, where meaning came and went with his whim, but a meaning that he couldn't' describe no matter how long he tried to explain. She had become a part of him that he didn't know he needed until that instant he saw her on her bathroom floor, bleeding and dying and alone. He didn't know until right then that if she was gone, he had no direction. Not that he was a wayward child, incapable of making his way in the world, but she sets him on a path that is above the dark he wants to live in, dragging him back to the light of humanity by simply existing.

That, and standing up to him time and again, holding him accountable for everything he does.

He looks at her and he feels fear, worry, doubt, but above all, he feels _useless_. There is no more he can do for her, now that she is here, hooked up to machinery that beeped and whirred and spouted off information that was detached from the human it was actually reading.

Her heartbeat is low.

Her respiratory rate is steady.

Her pain is under control.

But that doesn't tell him if she is _feeling_ right now. It doesn't tell him if she is afraid, if she knew anything at all. Those machines, they only tell him the physical things, the things he wasn't as interested in now. Oh, to be sure, when the men with stretchers and large red bags had come marching into her bathroom, he'd wanted to know only if she was able to be saved, if her body still wanted to draw breath; it amazes him, even now, how tightly she'd held on to his hand, even after her eyes had closed and her breath had turned shallow.

It took one of the medics repeating "let go" before he was able to relinquish his hold.

He'd felt cold then, like he'd just done something wrong, as though turning her care over to the strangers had been a slight against her. Wasn't he supposed to protect her? Wasn't he supposed to care for her? Yet there he had been, following a pair of men with her held in between, unable to help her in any way. He'd felt useless then, as he does now.

He hasn't slept. Three days, three days and his family had asked for him to return home, if only to shower. Three days, and his partner had asked him to take a break, that she would be looked after while he was away. Three days, and she hadn't woken up.

Three days.

He'd eaten – he knew he had to – but he'd refused to be ushered out of the room when doctors came to visit. She had no immediate family, and after his eventually loud protestations at not being allowed in her room, the hospital had relented, and allowed him to stay.

He slept next to her, and more than a couple of the nurses had commented on his ability to run on no more than a few hours of rest a night. How could he tell them that his normal evenings were spent behind a bow or in a lair, but never in a bed? That now he had a true reason to avoid his dreams, to avoid the sleep that brought them on?

He did tell them he didn't want her to be alone.

He'd woken up alone before – beaten, shot, stabbed, or tortured, or a mixture of both – and the knowledge that there is no one to see you wake, that no one had cared enough about you to be by your side as you come out of another world, was one that still made him run cold. He didn't want that for her. He was there when she fell asleep; he was going to be damn sure he was there when she woke.

So here he is, reading a book she'd been badgering him to pick up, one hand resting on the bed next to her fingers, his own occasionally stroking her smooth skin. It is an unconscious thing, something he does without realizing it until he goes to turn a page, and he finds that his fingers are entwined with hers. It takes him a moment to process what's happened, and eventually comes to realize it is a situation he doesn't want to change.

He'd only ever touched her like this when on a mission, or most recently, when she way dying on a bathroom floor. It felt right, somehow, to be holding her like this, even if it is only her hand. His thumb strokes the back of her hand, careful to avoid the needles, and he can't help but marvel at how much smaller her hand was than his. He is rough, tanned, calloused; she is smooth, and cream coloured. This isn't to say her's isn't a strong hand he is holding; she may not be able to throw a convincing punch, but she isn't a delicate little flower. Every day she was toughening up under his partner's tutelage, every day she was growing a bit more hard-hitting.

He leans back, watching her face as his hand rests in his, where there is a pressure on his fingers. Looking down, he can't see any movement, but there it is again, that _pressure_ that tells him she was waking. His heart rate jumps, his eyes wander over her, but his hand never lets go, never moves from its place in hers.

When she opens her eyes, he will be holding her hand.

He has no intention of ever letting it go.


End file.
